A Celebration
by ClarySpeakman
Summary: The Shadowhunters prevented the Dark War. This is their victory, but a certain someone crashes the party.


It was like a celebration after a wedding, Clary thought.

She had never seen the grand enjour of the Institute's ballroom. It was an immense room, with a circular ceiling that mounted at a tower in the center. A second floor gallery ran around the room, the stairs spiralling upward like a secret. The walls were a rich gold, like Angel' s golden ichor. The floor was made up of black and white squares, like a giant checkerboard, and a wide burgundy carpet cut through the center of it, from the room's entrance and curving up the stairwell.

Exactly like a celebration. Only not for a wedding; these people were celebrating their victory of winning the Dark War.

The room was crowded. Guests milled about the round golden tables tucked into corners, muttering and nodding in agreement, cupping glasses of red champagne in their gloved hands. Women in beautiful ball gowns rocked back and forth in their partner's arms, mirroring the soft rhythm of the music Magnus had provided. Through the gaps in the crowd Clary could see faces she recognised; her mother, her arms wound around Luke's neck, her head resting against his chest; Maia, talking to Bat; Izzy, gazing across the room at Simon, her eyes longing as if she were reaching for something she couldn't quite touch. Alec and Magnus had wandered off up the stairs several minutes ago, and the thought made Clary smile.

She stood in the center of the room beneath the glimmering chandelier, her arms around Jace and her head pillowed against his chest. Despite the music, she could hear the thrumming of his heart through his shirtfront, its steady beat humming through her veins and warming her body.

"You look beautiful," he murmured into her hair as they swayed.

Isabelle had insisted choosing her clothing for tonight: a green silk dress that flowed to the floor, strapless and, to her relief, padded. It clung to her now-existent curves as if the material were wet and enhanced the colour of her eyes and hair. She remembered the first time Jace had ever called her that: "But Isabelle's beautiful," she'd said, taking a bite of her apple. "So are you," Jace had replied.

She smiled at the memory. A small part of her longed for that feeling again, the shock and the reassurance and the blush those words had given her. She had wanted to live a normal life, but you couldn't run away from what you were, what you were destined to be. She had known, from the moment she'd left Simon staring after her at Java Jones and ran after Jace, that she was running away from everything she had ever known.

Running away from a lie.

"Earth to Clary." Fingers brushed her cheek; she looked up and saw Jace, staring down at her with concern dawning in his eyes. So caught up in her memories as she was, she had almost forgotten where she was. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she said, too hastily, and Jace cocked an eyebrow. She sighed. "I was just thinking about Seb-Jonathan. I've always wanted a brother. I had you as a brother, and I hated it. Hated every moment of thinking we were related when I felt about you the way I did. You were there, always a part of me, but it was killing me all the same." Jace was looking past her now, beyond her, beyond the room and people, as if he couldn't bear to look at her. As if the memory hurt. She added hastily, "But then you weren't my brother and everything was perfect. That truth filled the hole in my heart, and I could breathe again, I could touch you, kiss you, without having to pull away. And then I found myself longing for that again, for a brother, someone who would protect me and love me-"

"Clary," Jace choked.

He still wasn't looking at her; he was staring over her shoulder, his expression tense and … astonished. Turning, Clary saw her brother, standing behind them.

She hadn't heard the music drown out, or seen the dancers part behind them as Jonathan parted them with his presence. But she was looking at him now, at his green eyes, locked on her, full of love and uncertainty and self-hatred - and she heard Jace call out to her as she ran, and tripped over the hem of her dress, and found herself in her brother's arms, his body steadying her as she stumbled. His touch no longer burned her skin; his hands were warm on her bare arms as he gently pushed her away.

"Clary," he whispered. And he reached up to touch her cheek, his gaze unwavering. "My sister."

She looked at him in wonderment. He still _looked _like Sebastian, the boy with the silver-white hair and angular cheekbones and long, fair lashes that brushed his cheek. But at the same time, he didn't. His eyes, green as spring grass, were looking at her, reaching into her soul and knitting it back together with their expression of amazement and adornment. She recalled all those times Sebastian had said the two of them were alike, and she had recoiled as if he were a poisonous snake, but she realized now that she and Sebastian were not alike; she and Jonathan were alike, mirrors of their own selves.

And here he stood, her brother. The brother she thought she never would have the chance to know.

She hated Sebastian, hated everything he'd done, not just to her but to the Lightwoods, to Jace, to Max, to Raphael, to Luke, to Jocelyn. But this wasn't Sebastian, she knew - this was Jonathan. Jonathan Christopher Morgenstern. Her brother.

Clary stood frozen in shock. She was aware of the eyes on the two of them, of Jace grasping her hand and tugging her back and away from the boy in front of them, of Jocelyn and Isabelle pushing their way through the frozen crowd toward her.

"No!" Clary jerked free of Jace's grasp. "Please, Jace." She looked up at him, at the boy who had once been broken by his father, and saw in his eyes a sadness so agonizing that it cut at her throat. "Remeber what I just said to you."

A moment passed before he nodded and Clary whirled to face her brother. She felt as if she had swallowed a bunch of knives, each blade digesting and stabbing into her heart and preventing the words she so desperately needed to say: _I don't hate you, Jonathan. _She knew he needed to hear those words, but they wouldn't come. Looking at him was too much like looking at the boy who had killed Max in cold blood, had almost killed Jace and Alec and Magnus and everyone she loved, who had forced himself on her and starred in her nightmares.

"Jonathan," she said, taking a step toward him.

He held up his hands; she froze. "Don't. I don't need to hear it. I don't _deserve_ to hear it." He sounded strained. "I'm … I'm sorry," he said, and his eyes scoured the faces in the room; they stared back, mouths open in terror and eyes filled with hate. "For everything I've done. There are no words that will make your pain less agonizing, make your losses more bearable, so I'll say what I came here to say, and then you can have your way with me."

"Jonathan-" Clary gasped, stepping forward.

Her brother looked at her with sad eyes. "Clary. I remember you, always so fierce and determined. I saw it through the eyes of … _him. _He admired you for it, for your bravery. He thought you were exactly like him, but you weren't. You never have been and you never will be. You do what you do out of love, and that's what set you apart from him." His eyes bored into hers, willing her to understand. "You have to know … that Sebastian never had any of that. His father took his choices away. Created him only to do his bidding. Sebastian was never his son but an instrument, an instrument of evil. He wasn't raised to love, only to want, and to take. If he ever loved anyone, it was you, Clary. He wanted you because of the blood that bound him to you, and for that he thought you were alike. He forced you to love him." He looked sickened. "Forced you in ways that were … unforgivable."

Clary just looked at him. She remembered, in the apartment, his hands on her and his lips forcing hers to part, and Amatis's bedroom: _"Stop. Get your hands off me," _Clary had begged. "_No. I have always wanted - I want to - I need to …"_

Jocelyn had come up beside her daughter, her hand flying to her mouth immediately when she saw him. Isabelle hesitated slightly, hanging back with her fingers curled about her whip; Clary had no doubt she would use it.

"What do you mean?" It was her mother, having removed her hand from her mouth. Her eyes were as cold and hard as stone. "Forced her how?"

Jonathan looked as if he'd rather be elsewhere. "He tried to … tried to …"

"_What did you do to my daughter?_"

Jace moved forward then and whispered something to Jocelyn; a moment later the two of them were pushing their way through the unmoving crowd toward the doors where they vanished through them.

"Clary," said Jonathan. "You have to know … that even though those hands that touched you were my hands, I was screaming at myself inside him. I never wanted to hurt you. I just didn't know the difference." He turned to Isabelle. "Izzy. Beautiful, fearless Isabelle Lightwood. Sebastian murdered your little brother; I was watching him when he did it. And I am so … so very sorry, because you're looking at me now as if I am that same boy who took Max away from you. I may look like him and talk like him and breathe like him, but I am not him. Not in here"- and he pressed his hand against his chest, over his heart -"I am not Sebastian."

Isabelle stood stock-still as silent tears made streaks down her face; Clary wished Alec were here to comfort her. Clary would have done it herself if she hadn't been so torn between her brother and Izzy. How could you choose? She couldn't side with her brother without fear of losing everything she and Isabelle had gained, and she couldn't comfort Isabelle without losing her brother.

"I am sorry," Jonathan said again. "There are no words for my wrongdoings. I would paint the words in my blood if you wanted me to. I'd do anything for your forgiveness. That is where Sebastian and I are different; Sebastian forced people to forgive him, whereas I now know the difference. Forgiveness is earned, not given freely."

And with that he spun and walked away, back through the crowd and toward the doors. Clary watched him go, feeling as if all those memories she had barricaded in her closet were spilling through, drowning her once again in loss and pain and … and happiness.

She remembered crossing into the demon realm and the vision she had seen, of the one thing she wanted: her brother, laughing and smiling; her brother, alive and breathing; her brother, ruffling her hair and protecting her life with his own.

Her brother. Her brother.

Her brother, who was now walking away from her as if into the sunset, as if she would never see him again and this was how the story ended.

No, she thought. She wasn't going to lose him. Not again.

And she stepped forward, breaking into a run and gathering up her dress as she went, screaming his name at the top of her lungs. An image flashed behind her eyelids as he turned slowly to face her: a man with a shock of white hair with a whip clutched in his hands, standing over a small boy as he brought the whip down again, and again, and again …

Tears burned the backs of her eyes as she threw her arms wide and hurtled into him. She heard the breath go out of him, and his arms went instantly around her, holding her to him as if he never wanted to let go.

"Clary, Clary, Clary," he whispered into her hair.

She buried her face in the crook of his neck. The tears were running freely now, and for once she felt whole and happy.

"Clary," he said, urgently now, and she smiled. It was the sort of tone an older brother would use when he was worried about his younger sister. It spoke of protection and love, something she had never associated with this beautiful, broken boy. "Clary, look at me."

She did. His eyes, now so much like her own, were cold and stern. They said: _If anyone has hurt you, I will hunt down the bastard that hurt you and cut off his fingers, one by one. _It was a look she had seen Alec and Izzy exchange, a look she had seen in the depth of Simon's eyes when he'd looked at her. A look she loved.

Jonathan looked enraged. "What's wrong, Clary? Tell me-"

She shook her head, choking on a laugh. "Nothing's wrong." When his eyes turned questioning, she added, " Everything's right. I have everything I want. I've always wanted a brother, and when I found out that you - that Sebastian - was my brother, I hated you. I despised the brother I had and longed for the one I thought would never have." She smiled. "But you're here. You're here. You're real and alive and - and _good."_

The boy whose arms were wrapped around her waist seemed to freeze. His expression turned to one of relief, and his eyes gleamed with tears. Clary's heart skipped. "You're my brother. And I love you." She willed him to look at her, and when he did, and he finally smiled, she said what she'd been needing to say, "There is nothing to forgive. That boy, the boy who did all those things, wasn't you. You're Jonathan. Jonathan Christopher Morgenstern. My brother."

And his smile widened, lips pressed together as he closed his eyes and the tears ran down his face. She put a hand to his cheek in wonderment, feeling the droplets wash over her fingers. "I love you, Clary," he said, and they clung to each other as if they never meant to let go.


End file.
